


Glitter & Crimson

by zanni_1 (zanni_scaramouche)



Series: Pretty Venom [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Subspace, Age Difference, Anal Sex, CMNM, D/s themes, Dirty Talk, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Human AU, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pet Names, Prostitute Stiles Stilinski, Prostitution, Referenced Drugging (blink and you miss), Size Difference, Strangers, Subdrop, Subspace, Teen Stiles Stilinski, Virgin Stiles Stilinski, if you love me you'll read the AN, this is not how subspace works kids, virgin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25838701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanni_scaramouche/pseuds/zanni_1
Summary: Stiles is fine. He knew this would happen. Heknows.The beat up laptop stuffed under his mattress can attest to how much porn he’s watched and hell, he’s been on his knees in a piss stained alley for a few tenners. He’s not some scared blushing virgin.Except. He kind of is.(Prologue)
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Pretty Venom [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874905
Comments: 27
Kudos: 385





	Glitter & Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue to 'Pretty Venom' 
> 
> I have spent hours debating and can NOT decide if you should read this BEFORE or AFTER the main story sooooo you decide! Read now and slightly SPOILER the coming story, or Mark for Later and read after to enjoy the full surprise :) 
> 
> It's not explicitly stated in this Part but Stiles is 19.  
> 
> 
> Notes on Subspace in bottom A/N

Stiles’ dad thinks he’s hanging out with Scott. He probably thinks they’re playing xbox and sharing a responsible amount of weed on Scott’s worn out couch. No doubt he’s prepared to pretend not to notice the smell on his clothes when he comes home the next morning and hugs him. They’ll share a quick do-si-do as Stiles returns and his dad hops out the door for work. 

If he knew where Stiles really was he’d kill him. 

Really he’d be lucky to, because there’s a chance someone else might do it first. It’s a fact he tries to ignore while the harsh brick of the club's dirty alley rubs his bare arms raw. Not his fault the fastest way to earn a high amount of cash involved putting his life on the line. That’s what life always comes down to, isn’t it? Money. 

In a way he’s lucky, because he’s got a small frame and bright eyes, and he’s discovered he can charge the greasy bastards a few bills more for it. Things have been easy so far, only turning in quick tricks instead of the full deal, but he holds himself back from thinking still having breath in his lungs is down to anything but luck.

Right now his breath is on the brink of visibility in the frigid night and he kinda hates himself for wearing nothing but a thin t-shirt a little too short, revealing a slim line of his flat lower tummy. He’s had luck in this outfit before, but tonight was an absolute waste. He stomps his feet to work blood into his toes and balls his hands in worn jean pockets. 

Ten minutes. That’s all he’s gonna give it until he sneaks back into his own house and is forced to hope tomorrow night will be better. It has to be, because the mortgage payment is due and the car is making sounds it shouldn’t but his dad can’t afford to take it into the shop. If the car breaks down he can’t work, and then they’ll be really fucked.

Stiles pushes himself away from the wall vibrating with heavy bass and sighs, half for the dramatics and half just to see his cloud of breath drift into the air. Screw it. Too fucking cold to be standing outside a dingy night club waiting for someone to take him up on his very obvious offer. Loose stones grind under his feet when he spins on his heels and tries to tug his shirt down lower. Stubbornly the hem remains an inch higher than his freezing hip bones.

Halfway down the block his head is full of numbers and recalculating how much he’ll have to pull the next night when a sleek SUV pulls alongside the curb. Stiles’ steps slow and his fists tighten in his pockets, uncertain until the window rolls down and he stops completely. 

The driver is a statue come to life, with a defined jawline and lithe muscle tense where he grips the steering wheel. Stiles catches sight of the deep indent between eyebrows. Make that a very pissed off statue.

“Get in.” 

The voice is irrefutably deep. Stiles swallows thickly and glances behind him. Even a hundred feet away the bouncer is still at their post, a viable witness should things go south. 

Hands still stuffed in his pockets Stiles raises his shoulders in a tight shrug, “I ‘aint free.” 

The knuckles go white on the steering wheel. Stiles startles and trips backwards at the flash of movement before realizing the man only shoved the passenger door open. Trepidation hardens in Stiles’ gut. It’s never a smart decision to get in a stranger’s vehicle, doubly so when said stranger is clearly struggling with anger issues, but it could be worth it if it means spending tomorrow night actually sitting on Scott’s sofa. 

Tempting, tempting. 

Stiles bounces on his heels twice while evaluating the risk, and realizing his toes have gone completely numb is what finally does it for him. Too cold to think about his bad decisions any longer he hops in. 

Stiles taps a rhythm into his thigh. A tap for every block left behind, alternating fingers for each turn. He tries not to be too obvious about craning his neck to see the street signs. Recognition throws him off guard. Nights like this tend to go in the opposite direction towards the sketchy pay-by-the-hour rooms. Instead the man drives into the hub of the city and beyond, until any recognition Stiles had for the streets is wiped away by designer labels he’s only seen imitations of. When they glide to a stop next to a hotel lobby gilded in gold, Stiles squints at the man currently handing his keys to the valet. 

The vehicle is worth more than the house Stiles lives in, the tailored clothing on the man no doubt tagged with the same high-end stores they’d driven past. This is not his typical clientele. A sourness twists in Stiles’ stomach with every step his scuffed vans take on polished marble. He’s not decided if it’s a good or bad thing. 

They don’t check in. The man cuts a straight path to an elevator and leaves Stiles stumbling to follow. The elevator itself is a lifesived jewellery box with the same gilded gold as the lobby. Stiles peers sideways at the mirrored walls to scrutinise the enigma beside him. High cheekbones still as intimidating in the full light as they were in the shadowed car, lips turned down in a scowl, intense eyes catching his curious ones in the reflective panel. Stiles flicks his gaze away quickly with a flutter of embarrassment in his chest.

Tension simmers in the silence and fills the thin space between their bodies. Stiles shifts his weight with every level they pass, wrestling with his instinct to open his mouth and awkwardly ramble every thought he’s ever had just to kill the silence. But he’s been brought here with a job to do, and maybe this guy isn’t as easy to read as the men who have approached him either shaking with more nerves than Stiles or with arrogant drunken smirks, but he must have seen something he liked enough to pick Stiles up. Emboldened by the knowledge he squares his shoulders in preparation to act, only for the light ping of opening doors to cut him off before he can start and the man steps out of reach. 

He doesn’t cast a single look behind him to see if Stiles follows. Stiles frowns at the backside of his head with annoyance, pointedly waiting as long as he can to follow and yet the man still doesn’t look. A snark nearly launches from his tongue but he bites it harshly enough to hurt. He can’t piss off the rich guy about to give him the money he desperately needs. With a huff Stiles keeps his grumbles to himself and hurries through the sleek white and gold hall to catch up. 

The door opens just as Stiles arrives and the man steps aside to let Stiles in first. Stiles doesn’t think twice before stepping in. It’s not a single room, and it’s a damn far cry from the shady hovels with cigarette scars in the carpet he’s used to. 

Like a spot on a cashmere sweater he stands in the suit with the sterile furnishings of a high gloss magazine. Stiles’ steps falter as his wide eyes take it in, practically signed confirmation he won’t be giving a quick blowie or hand job like every time he’s done this before.

One of the first things he had to ask himself when deciding to go this route was if he’d really go all the way for someone who paid the right price. This guy can definitely pay up, and Stiles is half tempted to tell him beforehand to see if he’d pay more knowing he’s the first, but Stiles’ also heard horror stories about overexcitement leading to consequences he’s not too fond of, especially when the guy’s already worked up. There’s also a chance the man could try to insist on a discount if he thinks Stiles’ lack of experience is more inconvenient than valuable. No, Stiles chews his bottom lip, it’s not worth the risk to reveal he’s still a virgin where it counts.

The hairs on the back of his neck raise with warning and Stiles realises his mistake too late to do anything about it. He’s left his back to the man. 

Stiles’ breath catches at the press of a muscled body behind him.

“Strip.” 

The low growl is pressed into his neck. As quickly as it appeared the heat of the body withdraws. Several seconds pass before Stiles can work the word into action. He grabs at his clothes without grace, jittery with anticipation. 

He’s fine. He knew this would happen. He _knows._ The shitty laptop stuffed under his mattress can attest to how much porn he’s watched through puberty and hell, he’s been on his knees in a piss stained alley for a few tenners. He’s not some scared blushing virgin 

Except. He kind of is. 

The moment the last of his clothes hit the floor fingers dig into the soft skin of his waist to spin him around. The mouth against his throws him further off balance with it’s violence. He stumbles under the assault of rough lips and a forceful tongue. The man follows like a predator. His grip is the only reason Stiles remains standing and Stiles is shocked to find himself clinging to the onyx silk of the man’s shirt. Every place their bodies touch is heightened by the fine fabric of the man’s clothes meeting nothing but Stiles’ bare skin.

He tries to relax into the kiss like he’s learned to do with others before, but things are moving faster than he’d expected and before he has a moment to gather himself something takes him out at the knees. In a heart stopping moment gravity pulls them apart and Stiles falls backwards. 

His tense body lands on a cloud with a shocked gasp and a wave of relief. 

Calloused hands easily circle Stiles’ thin ankles while the man stands between his sprawled legs. The intense stare pushes Stiles’ usual boldness aside and leaves him uncertainly picking at the sheets. He casts his eyes down and bites the bottom lip already sensitive from the previous abuse. He forces his eyes up. 

“How do you-”

Lips silences him. The hot length of the man covers Stiles’ smaller frame, one hand propped by his head to keep Stiles from being crushed and the other with fingers threaded in his hair. A thumb stays strong on his jaw to keep him in place. It’s easier with his head on a pillow to sink into the give and take of the kiss. A light nip of the man’s teeth on Stiles’ lips right where he’d been biting himself leaves a sharp sting. 

Stiles is out of breath when they part. The man stays close enough for their noses to brush and Stiles’ lungs eagerly fill with the heated air between them. He’s frightened by the flood of heat rising just from knowing his lungs are full of the air straight from the man’s mouth.

“Follow my lead.” 

Stiles’ legs are pulled wide around a sturdy waist and he instinctively locks his ankles at the small of the man's back. The sound of his heavy breathing is overwhelmed by the blood rush ringing in his ears. Firm hands glide along his sides and ease his pliant arms above his head. Stiles’ eyes widen. 

Okay, yeah he can… he can do this. It’s not handcuffs or rope, just the tight brace of thick fingers around his wrists. Somehow it’s both better and worse. The man above him remains stoic and Stiles would be more concerned if he couldn’t feel the hard length of his clothed arousal pressing into his thigh. 

There’s something off. A harshness in his touch and sharpness in his eyes Stiles should be more concerned about. He’s not. Can’t even force himself to be. No one has ever wanted to be the one in control like this before and Stiles isn’t blind. The man above him is so attractive it practically hurts. Despite the nerves, Stiles’ been on his way to being hard since they entered the hotel lobby. Now he’s obscenely on display and desperate for it to the point of stupidity.

This isn’t about him though, this is a job. The reminder pierces through his arousal and brings the world back into sharp focus. 

“You sure you don’t want me to-” 

Another kiss cuts him off and Stiles would be pretty annoyed if the slick slide of tongue against his wasn’t so pleasant. 

One hand stays wrapped around Stiles’ wrists while the other trails down his body, stopping to cradle his head and deepen their kiss. It continues down to circle teasingly around his sensitive nipple, over the swell of his hips, and trailing to the flat of his stomach. With a sure touch it curls around his cock. Stiles breaks out of the kiss with a groan at the first stroke, a little rough and dry but so fucking perfect. 

Avid green eyes devour him. He’s pinned in place from their weight as they look from his cock to his face. His thighs tense, his toes curling and flexing as heat builds. When the man ducks closer he passes Stiles’ lips to nose at his neck. His words are quiet but stern, not a suggestion but an order given with the tightening of his hand on Stiles’ wrists. 

“Let me take care of you.” 

Wet suction on the sensitive crease between neck and shoulder causes Stiles to keen. His eyes squeeze shut and his back arches like a bowstring taut with tension. Any thought to ever occupy his brain is wiped away by the ruthless sting of teeth. He breaks into panting breaths as the mouth works over his raw skin, a prickle of sweat breaking over him while his muscles tense and relax in jittery surges. 

They part and Stiles has to blink several times to think.

“Look how worked up you are, so desperate for it so quickly,” he speaks against Stiles’ skin, “practically begging.”

He moves lower while both of his hands slide to grip the slimmest part of Stiles’ waist. Stiles wants to roll his eyes at the obnoxious words, but he doesn’t get the chance. 

Nothing could prepare him for the searing press of a mouth over his nipple. He squirms against the intensity of the sensation and strong fingers dig into his skin to keep him still. When the man flicks his tongue Stiles lets out an embarrassingly loud whine. 

“That’s it sweetheart, let me hear you. Wanna know how good you’re feeling, let me know you want it.” 

Green eyes flash from their place near Stiles’ sternum seconds before lips change focus to the untouched nipple. The spike of arousal it drives into Stiles’ core is just as fierce as the first and by the time the man pulls away Stiles is left a shaking mess. Belatedly he realises his hips are rocking in a desperate attempt to find friction on the rough fabric of the man’s pants, but the angle is wrong and it does nothing to alleviate his pulsing cock. 

“Fuck,” Stiles inhales with frustration. 

The man hovers over him and if Stiles could bet on it he’d say the tilt of his lips was a smirk. He leans in to run his nose along Stiles’ smooth jawline. Without their restraints Stiles’ hands clench on the man’s shoulders.

“Need someone to take care of you, don’t you? Need someone to pay attention, give you what you want.” 

The man tilts his face up for another wicked kiss before Stiles can reply. Stiles’ whimpers are swallowed down when their hips finally align. The intoxicating press of a heavy cock on this lower belly, right next to his own, gives just enough friction to bring tears of relief to his eyes. 

“What do you want?” He asks against Stiles’ mouth. 

Stiles struggles to swallow. Eyes still closed he licks his bottom lip. This is the last moment he could chicken out, or it could be if he was stronger, but truthfully he’s known since the moment he got in the car how he’d be ending the night. He can’t even imagine asking for anything less. 

“Want you to fuck me,” he admits sounding more pitiful than he’d expected. More plea than fact. 

Slick lips press against his once more, quick but harsh. Hot hands run along Stiles' body and dip into each curve and smooth over every flat plane of him. Every inch they touch shivers with their absence. 

“Fit in my hands so sweetly.” The hum brushes the shell of Stiles’ ear. He flinches a little from the tickle of air against his skin. 

Or maybe it’s from the hand beneath him curling around the globe of his ass. A confident finger seeks the crease until it’s zeroed in on the most private part of him. The pad of the index finger strokes with blunt pressure until Stiles feels his rim pulsing. The anxiety swelling under his skin isn’t entirely over the threat of dry penetration.

He has his past self to thank for not being a complete idiot. Going out on the street like he did came with a myriad of risks, but one he sure as fuck wasn’t willing to take was being rawed because some asshat couldn’t bother with prep. Right before he left he spent a sufficient amount of time making sure he was better off than if he’d done nothing. Most of the lube he’d used has dried by now, not a surprise, but he’s still soft and swollen from his self-attention. 

It makes him hyper sensitive to the slightest touch, overtly aware of the finger tip dragging against him. Stiles' chest seizes with instant vulnerability. No one has ever seen him like this, let alone touched him. A complex rush of apprehension and thrill keeps him on the edge of pulling away.

A lube bottle cap snicks, his only warning before the dry press turns into a velvety glide. He tries to keep his eyes on the man staring between his legs, but his eyes roll without permission the second a finger sinks in fully with a fluid push.

The sensation is incomparable to his own delicate digits. One of his fingers is pleasant but barely enough to really feel. The thickness of this man’s solo finger is enough to clench around, and when another joins without hesitation Stiles learns two is a full stretch. The man pumps methodically and Stiles tries not to come too quickly at the exhilarating touch of someone else after so long of only knowing himself. His thighs shake with effort. 

“There you go, easy baby,” the man soothes and gentleness behind his powerful touch is opposite of everything Stiles had expected and yet exactly what he needs.

Stiles loses himself in the building heat. The man’s larger body covers his own and presses him down, one hand moving beneath him and the other cradling his jaw while they rock against each other. Sweat slick and trembling, he feels held. Recklessly he allows himself to embrace the inexplicable feeling of being safe. 

Both hands withdraw from his body. A whimper escapes him before he can hold it back. 

“So eager,” the man chides with a lilt of humour. 

Stiles flushes at his own behaviour, but he doesn’t think he’s being laughed at. Judging by the length incessantly throbbing against his hip he’d say he’s still in business. The man reaches away to the bedside drawer and the foil of a condom crinkles as it tears open somewhere Stiles can’t see. 

He takes the clarity the absence of this man’s attention gives him to mentally review everything he’s read about how to take dick. Valiantly he tries to slow his breathing. His body is in a tug of war, a clash of hyperfocus on everything happening between his legs that has his heart pounding, and the soft fog embracing his mind smothering the ability to think. 

The man returns with a broad hand on Stiles' belly and a blunt press against his hole. Stiles breathes out in a rush as the head slides into him and doesn’t stop, god the pressure doesn’t stop until he’s choking. 

“Fuck, so tight.” The man groans as his hips rock with the same steadiness his fingers had. 

“First,” the word slips from Stiles’ mouth before he bites his lip, too late. 

The man above him freezes. 

“What’s that?” He murmurs, voice laced with a dark edge. 

Stiles opens his eyes and yeah, he has to blink a few times because he is actually crying. Can you blame him? He’s pretty sure he’s just met God himself. His chest is on the brink of bursting. Those deep eyes are too intense, too overwhelming, and Stiles turns away so he can remember how to work his voice. His eyes aimlessly land on the vague outline of a lamp on the bedside table. 

“You’re the first,” he mutters, the flush from earlier doubling the warmth in his cheeks. 

“First tonight.” 

The words aren’t a question, yet Stiles can hear the uncomfortable stiffness of uncertainty in them. 

He shouldn’t. Told himself he wouldn’t admit it. That was before, when he could actually think things through. Now he feels fully exposed like every layer he’d tried to wrap himself in has been cut through with those bloody sharp eyes. Stiles bites his lip as a tear rolls down his cheek like a damn flower. 

He jerks his head. “Ever.” 

“Fuck,” the man curses like the word is punched from his lungs. 

His forehead comes to rest on the damp skin of Stiles’ collarbone. An aborted thrust surprises Stiles with a gasp, realising the man hadn’t fully bottomed out until now. 

_“Fuck,”_ the man above him groans again, near panting with effort to stay still, “Do you want me to stop?”

Stiles’ eyes wildly meet the man in shock, the thought of everything coming to a halt now sends a bolt of fear through him. 

“No, want you-” Stiles’ voice cuts out before he can get the rest of the words out. His fingers clamp around thick biceps like he could keep them from pulling away. 

“Tell me.” The order is dark and stern. 

“Want you to move.” Stiles rolls his hips weakly against the ironhold and whines, “Please don’t stop. Want it, want you, please, please-”

Stiles doesn’t even know what words drip from his mouth, he’d do anything at this point. Something must work because he’s quickly enveloped by the press of another body as the rhythm of his hips picks up. The pace is slower until Stiles claws desperately without purchase on the silk covered muscled back. 

Stiles knocks his head back when a wet mouth bites gently along his jaw, trailing up to a sensitive spot behind his ear he didn’t even know existed. Every push into him is just as filling and overwhelming as the first. The hazy fog returns to swallow his mind until every detail of the room is softened, his awareness narrowed to the inescapable fullness. 

Deft fingers stroke over his cock without warning. Stiles’ hips stutter into the touch but a hand presses him down. 

“Such a pretty boy begging for me, anything you want. So lovely when you’re needy, fuck. So fucking perfect.” 

Sheets twist in Stiles fists as a thick thumb flicks over the wet tip and presses into the sensitive underside on a downward stroke. He struggles to chase the friction and still rock down in tempo. Something shifts at the movement. A spark explodes, glitter and crimson on the back of his eyelids. 

Stiles cries out as flames surge inside him. The depth of his bliss is unparalleled to any he’s experienced before, better than every fumbling excuse of an encounter he’s ever had, a redefinition of the word pleasure.

“That’s it. Need me right there sweetheart?” 

Words are beyond him. Stiles doesn’t need to answer given the increase in speed, the hand on his cock tightening. The faintest tip of a thought squirms it’s way into his head, reminding him not to come until the other man does. Until the customer does. 

Stiles bites his bottom lip and forces his eyes open, trying to regain a semblance of focus. It doesn’t work. All he sees is the deep cut of the unbuttoned silk shirt revealing an impeccable chest glistening with sweat. He casts his eyes up and the sight is no better, the man’s face enough to make Stiles believe he’s actually sunken into some form of hell. Distressed little sounds keep working their way from him as he struggles. Clinging to his control is like dangling from an oiled cliffside. 

Teeth tug at the thin skin beneath his ear. 

“It’s okay. Fall apart for me darling.” 

Stiles does as he’s told and lets go.

The world is reduced to pulsing. A hand milks over his cock, his stomach clenches in errant aftershocks, and there’s the undeniable throb inside him. Every pulse of the man coming inside him is extraordinarily intimate. 

Slowly the pleasure of orgasm melts away and leaves Stiles trembling. He tries to still himself only to fail, control over his own limbs incredibly hard to regain. He blinks with weighted eyelids and fails to focus. This doesn’t feel right. Like a bad hangover hitting before he’s fully sober. A whisper of a thought worries he’s been drugged, but it’s too distant a concept to hold onto in the haze of his mind. All it leaves is a panic he can’t reason with. 

“Fuck,” The man mutters in a severe tone drastically different from the curse of pleasure on his lips earlier.

Gentle hands travel in searing trails across his shivering skin. He missed the moment the man undressed, sometime after the orgasms but before now because when Stiles wraps his arms around the man's shoulders he’s met with miles of bare skin against his. The man leans close and grips under Stiles’ thighs to lift them together, quickly adjusting to sit against the headrest with Stiles in his lap and wrapped around him. 

“Come here, I’ve got you little fox, I’m here,” the man smooths the hair from Stiles' forehead and shushes him. 

Stiles can’t manage a response under the crushing need to seek warmth. He goes easily when a hand strokes down his spine and the other settles firmly in his hair, tucking his face tight into the crook of the man’s neck. 

His hiccups are scarily close to sobs and he’s clinging so hard he’s not going to be the only one with bruises. It shouldn’t be like this, everything about this situation is wrong, but Stiles feels like he’s sinking and the comfort of this stranger's hold is a secure piece of driftwood. Stiles swears he can hear ocean waves in the ebb and flow of this man’s breath. 

Reality comes back in pieces. He’s fucked up. Oh christ, he’s fucked up so badly. Any minute this man is going to get up and leave. Any minute now, Stiles is going to be left in cold sheets feeling used in a way he will never be able to shake.

A soft kiss brushes Stiles’ shoulder. The tenderness of it is enough to make him recoil. He gets a sliver of space between them before the man’s hold keeps him from going further. 

He clears his dry throat. 

“I should leave.” 

Stiles bites his lip because he can’t stop it from trembling. He sniffles and rubs his eyes, god what a mess. Not since holding his mother's hand crossing the street has he felt this young. 

There’s barely an arms length between them, he’s still in the man’s lap even, but he already feels like he’s drifting. When their eyes meet Stiles latches onto the connection like an anchor. 

“Is that what you want?” 

An answer clogs Stiles’ throat. He knows what he should say, what he should do. But the depth of this man’s eyes demands nothing less than the truth and Stiles is helpless to resist. His fingers fiddle on his thighs, then make their own way to the fine hair on the man’s chest, before he finally gives in to the truth with a meek shake of his head. 

The man threads soft fingers through Stiles’ fringe to clear it from his face. Stiles is left with nothing to hide behind. 

“Do you want me to leave?” The voice vibrates beneath Stiles’ palm. 

Guiltily he repeats his answer. 

Like they never pulled away broad hands resume their place on Stiles’ pliant body. Blindly he lets himself be guided into a soft kiss. The man traces his bottom lip with the featherlight glance of his tongue. 

Time passes in a warm glow of gentle caresses until Stiles’ eyes are closed longer than they’re open between blinks. They’ve landed on their sides with Stiles still tucked neatly in the cradle of the man’s warm embrace. Sleep pulls at him. The man shifts beside him and Stiles’ fingers reflexively tighten. Immediately soft lips brush against his temple with a gentle promise. 

“Rest, little fox. I’m not going anywhere.”

Stiles flattens his palm against the solid chest. He falls asleep to the rhythm of the sea. 

Stiles wakes in downy luxury hotel sheets. The room is blinding with morning sun and stuffed with air as still as a museum. Something ugly twists in the pit of his stomach as the night’s events filter through his mind. He knows what to expect and yet the sight of it still hits him like a suckerpunch. 

An offending stack of cash sits neatly on the side table. The height of it does nothing to fill the hollow ache of being used.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on Subspace:  
> Stiles' fight or flight mode kicks into gear from the pain/pleasure/excitement of losing his virginity. He doesn’t recognize he’s in subspace and has minor panic over the possibility of being drugged. Derek sorta goads him into it, so he’s not completely innocent on that front even though he’s still shocked by the depth of Stiles’ drop. 
> 
> This could technically never really happen in reality, at least no where near this extent. Like everything in fanfic I’ve embellished it. Subspace and the sequential drop are chemical reactions our brains have to the overexertion of happy-juices swirling around your grey matter, and they tend to take longer to come into effect than is depicted in fic. It’s actually very neat science and I suggest y’all look into it, even if you’re just writing about it :)
> 
> PS  
> HOW did I write a fic where Stiles has like ONE line of dialogue??? OOC much??? ugh whatever. 
> 
> If you enjoyed the fic you can share/rb the post on tumblr!  
> https://zanniscaramouche.tumblr.com/tagged/glitter


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